


Pulled

by broi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Dirty Talk, Dom!Jon, Drinking, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Jon Snow knows nothing, Jon-centric, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Pre-Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Snark, Theon-centric, mentions of small houses, pissed in a tavern idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11803980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broi/pseuds/broi
Summary: Taking a message to Last Hearth is a tiring affair. It's also a tricky thing to keep on top of one's personal needs when having to share a room. Theon and Jon stop at a tavern and enjoy a very special sort of heart to heart. Isn't it nice when differences can be overcome with a good handshake?





	Pulled

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm midway through a very long, very demanding and very dark bit of Boltoncest. Needed a break so hung out with my best boys for a bit of piss-taking and snark. Prompt I was given was: Theon needs to get his end away and is thoroughly annoying about it, so Jon agrees to help out provided it shuts him up. Cue Jon grumbling his way through his first hand-job (on another boy, of course).
> 
> This is in the same sort of Theon/Jon verse as all my others with one-word titles. Juuuuust imagine when Robb gets involved...

“I’m not saying I’d fuck _anybody_ ,” Theon’s prattling, his mouth full and a greasy chicken leg in his hand, waving about the place, “—s’just that I’d probably get it up for that one over _there_ , provided I did her up the back way.” 

Jon had long considered his list of Annoying Things Theon Does to be comprehensive and complete. It comprises elements of Theon’s character that annoy everybody, such as talking to the Winterfell house keep like shit, or showing up late to training, bleary-eyed and yawning, reeking of last night’s ale and whichever girl he’d bullshitted to get between his furs. There’s items specifically linked to Robb, like how Theon smirks in his ear up at the top table, some comment or joke nobody else is privy to. It even goes quite niche in some respects: the entitled way Theon shucks his cloak from his shoulders; a very specific, stupid little whistle Theon does when he’s sharpening swords. _Twoo-twoo-twooooo_ , it goes, and by the _Gods_ has Jon lost many hours of sleep to that damned whistle, playing on a loop in his head.

Now, it seems, Jon can add _speaking lewdly with his mouth full and pointing with a chicken leg_ to that list. Evidently not as exhaustive as he had thought. 

“See the one I mean?” Theon continues. He wipes his free hand up the grease on his chin and waves the chicken leg in the vague direction of four or five tavern girls across the room. The place is absolutely heaving with people but it’s easy to pick out the ones Theon’s looking at. Theon’s type is perfectly identifiable: wares not only on display but spilling out, at least half a mouth of teeth, and a fucking pulse. “Redhead. The dark-haired one’s passable enough but she’s moody as all hells. Face like a slapped arse. And I don’t care how much my balls ache—” another mouthful of chicken – “I’m going nowhere near that blonde. See that look in her eye? One glance at my cock and I’ll never be rid of her.”

“Will you shut up? We’re not here to – to appraise girls across the floor of a tavern. Or do anything else with them, for that matter.”

Theon smirks and licks his teeth. Even the way his lips glisten with oil is irritating. “Mightn’t be why _you’re_ here, Snow, but my cock’s throbbing for a seeing-to and you’d best hope I get one, else I’m diabolical company.” When Jon doesn’t reply, Theon jabs him on the arm. “Oi. Get your miserable nose out of your tankard and enjoy yourself for once.” 

“We are here,” says Jon, remarkably patiently, “because we have to deliver Mikken’s swords to Last Hearth—”

“I say the Umbers should get their own bloody armourer.” Theon slurps a long gulp of ale around his mouthful of chicken, and Jon doesn’t even bother to hide the disdainful grimace that flares across his face like a beacon. Theon fixes him with a look. “ _What?_ ”

“They’ve got their own armourer. Mikken’s work is famous. This is a gesture.”

“I’ll give the Greatjon a gesture,” he grumbles through a mouthful. “Making us come all this way—”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Go right ahead. Just let me know when you’re planning on doing it, so I can watch. Never seen a giant squash a squid before.”

Theon clicks his fingers, hails a passing serving girl holding a tray. “You there. Two, here. Did you just make a joke, Snow? Knew that odd red star in the sky would start sending the world senseless soon enough. Oh, don’t spill it, you stupid whore.”

The poor girl looks from Theon to Jon in horror. She can’t be any more than about fifteen; certainly not one of the old hands who’d shoot down a comment like that from a green little lordling like Theon before it even leaves his mouth. Jon tenders her an apologetic glance and her fear softens a little. What sort of life led a girl like that to this: a tavern on the edge of the North, handing out ale to men who’d not even offer a word of thanks, and some who offer things far worse than that? 

Jon glances around the room. Umbers, Karstarks…some Bolton men, by the looks of them, huddled in a corner around a table, laughing hard. A boy in a fur-lined pink cape, slightly younger than the rest, seems to command the most attention. His wormy lips curve into a grin around his tankard, but his dark eyes shift from girl to girl throughout the room as the two great dogs at his feet yawn and slobber. 

_These are Northmen…your father’s banners,_ thinks Jon. These men are our allies. They are good men. Yet, why does he fear for the girl so much, or indeed, for any of the women in this place? _Because men are men, regardless of the picture carved into their shields_ , he realises miserably. _Or the means of their birth._

“Ever tried smiling, Snow? It doesn’t hurt. Besides, the girls love it.” 

Jon’s stolen from his thoughts by Greyjoy’s voice: the ever-present running commentary on Jon’s numerous shortcomings and failures. Theon picks his teeth with a bone, tosses it on the plate, and swings his boots onto the table. Jon stares at Theon’s long body as he stretches out, throws his hands behind his head, entirely at ease in this strange place. And then he looks away, back down into his tankard. He’s already had a cup and that’s usually his limit, but another can’t hurt. It may make Greyjoy just about tolerable. _Oh, Gods._ Jon had forgotten they have to share a room. If Greyjoy thinks he’s going to be bringing any of—

“You hear me, Snow? The girls love a good smile.” 

Jon lifts his tankard to his lips. “I don’t care what the girls love.”

Theon’s eyebrow raises lasciviously. “Oh. So you’re about the boys, are you?”

“Don’t be stupid—”

“Nowt wrong with it,” he shrugs. “A mouth’s a mouth after all, and a nice tight arse is a snugger fit than a whore’s cunt most of the time…though, I don’t like them hairy. Arses, that is. Got to be a nice, soft peach. Pale and inviting. Yeah. A pretty boy who’ll bend over and show me his—”

“ _Will you shut up._ ” 

“Why? Am I turning you on? Getting you going?” Jon’s face burns like all hell as Theon flings his feet from the table and snakes a hand up Jon’s thigh. “Jon Snow, you dark horse. If I’d have known the key to stopping you being such a brooding little bitch was to give you my cock to suck, I’d have done that months ago—”

_“I’m warning you, Greyjoy!”_

All at once, before he even knows he’s doing it, Jon’s on his feet and at least five tankards clatter to the floor in a crash. An immediate, unsettled silence swells through the tavern. Jon’s heart is thunderous in his chest. _It’s the embarrassment of spilling the drinks,_ he tells himself. He hates being the centre of attention. Still seated at the table as though nothing has happened, Theon picks up a tankard and sips, smirking into his cup. The many pairs of eyes Jon can feel on him turn one by one back to their business and slowly the hubbub returns to the room. 

Jon sits heavily back onto the bench and runs both his hands through his hair.

“You know, if you weren’t so easy to wind up, I wouldn’t find it half as fun.” Theon places his tankard down on the table, slides it towards Jon. “Drink. If you’re honestly telling me we won’t get off tonight, we may as well get pissed.” 

Jon glares at Theon’s tankard. It’s sort of a peace offering, which for some reason makes him even less inclined to take it. He looks at Theon who looks back at him. Theon nods at the tankard, insistent and infuriating as ever.

Jon shakes his head. “We shouldn’t.”

“Believe me, we should. We _definitely_ should.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to forget the massive rock-on in your breeches when you just stood up and had your tantrum, is why.”

Immediate, treacherous red heat floods Jon’s face. _Hard._ He’s fucking solid and he has no idea why. And worse – so very much worse – he hadn’t even really realised it, and Theon had _looked_ at it. At _him._ And – and! _Seven hells,_ what must he think? Theon’s hand had been on Jon’s _leg_ … 

Jon snatches the tankard and empties it off in four large gulps and thanks the Gods it’s ale and not wine. Ale, he seems to be fairly at home with. Wine makes him sullen and prone to fights, and then keeps him up all night pissing. Upon finishing, Jon slams the tankard down on the table and stares at it, because he cannot bear to look anywhere else. It’s some sort of wood, not like the horn tankards at Winterfell. Someone’s notched it a few times with a knife…some ale game, Jon supposes. And then before he can stop himself, he glances at Theon. He’s also staring at the tankard. Well, he is for about a second, before his eyes snap up to meet Jon’s and look away again before either of them can acknowledge it. Theon leans backwards and procures a tankard from the table behind him. He takes a long gulp and places it exactly halfway between them both.

“Anyway,” Greyjoy says at length.

“Anyway.”

There’s a long pause in which Jon wonders what would be the best way to end himself so as not to inconvenience the inn’s proprietor or the poor serving girls too much. Then Theon says, “Oh, _fuck it_.” 

“What?”

“Even the sight of your bastard cock at half-mast isn’t enough to shrivel my balls. I’m going to empty them in that redhead over there. Don’t wait up.” He captures the tankard, drains it off, gets up and disappears into the crowd. 

_It’s a bit of a strange juxtaposition,_ Jon thinks, how it is possible to feel so alone in a room so busy, yet not nearly alone enough at all. He’s not about to give Theon the satisfaction of leaving immediately – wherever Greyjoy is in the room, Jon can feel his eyes on him – but nor does he particularly want to sit there on his own. Instead, he falls to people watching, idly tracing his fingers across the rim of Theon’s empty tankard. Bolton’s men have gone and in their place some soldiers with a battleaxe sigil carved into their shields throw dice and bicker into their cups. Amongst them sits a homely boy of about twenty-two, ruddy-faced with drink, his shield discarded, shirt half unlaced, and his hand up a girl’s skirt. She sits in his lap giggling into his neck, and the Cerwyn soldiers laugh at them from their game. 

“Easy, Wyann! You’ll have her so wet soon, she’ll slip off your fingers and do herself an injury!”

The Cerwyn boy guffaws. “Honed and Ready, lads! Am I right? Am I right? Honed and Ready!” 

Jon hopes he’s directed his disdainful expression into his lap, but evidently not.

“Oi. You got a problem, pretty one?” When Jon looks up, shaking his head, the girl whispers in the boy’s ear and giggles. He looks Jon up and down, from his face to his boots and back, smirking. “She says you can join in if you like. Nothin’ she likes more than getting her tongue up a good little boy’s arsehole.”

That heat not long subsided returns in a great flushing wave down the back of Jon’s neck, and at once he knows he can do nothing but leave. It’s deafening, the swell of noise in his ears: clashes of tankards, shouts and yelps and screeches and laughter and indignant, barked orders. It’s _hot_ , too, and if he doesn’t get out of there soon he feels as though he will faint. 

He’s never been so glad to reach the shit little box-room in his life. The door bangs back on its hinges with a wooden thud and he slams it behind him, furious with the world and everything and everyone in it. _That includes yourself, Jon Snow,_ he mutters bitterly. _Why are you always so fucking angry?_

With trembling hands he fumbles at his sword belt, unhitching it from his waist, and there’s a split second where he nearly flings it on the floor in a fit of rage. Just before it leaves his hand he swallows his anger and rests it gently on the shelf. Then come his leathers, which he pulls over his head slowly, breathing deeply to regulate himself. He folds each item of clothing meticulously, placing them in a neat pile next to his sword, until he is wearing nothing but his smallclothes. He shivers, suddenly cold.

At least Greyjoy isn’t back.

Jon stares at Theon’s bed. It could definitely be worse. Greyjoy could be in it, defiling some poor girl in front of him, brazen and unapologetic. 

Or some boy.

 _If Greyjoy were with a boy,_ thinks Jon, _which way would he….go?_ With a woman it’s obvious. If Jon never hears the word “cunt” from Theon’s mouth again, it’ll be too soon. Although, he does talk about having a woman’s arse, in a strange sort of tone as though he thinks it’ll appeal more to Jon as it’s impossible to get a bastard on a girl that way. _Greyjoy doesn’t understand,_ thinks Jon angrily. _It’s not just about – about being a bastard, or getting a bastard on a girl. It’s about honour, and doing things the right way. Something Greyjoy would never understand._

But if he’s with a boy…is that any more honourable? Is it the same? Jon doesn’t know. It seems to be somewhat better than a girl. A boy could fight Theon off. Grab him by the wrists and throw him backwards. Completely overpower him, the way a woman could not. A boy could even push Theon onto his front, hold his face into the bed and lift his backside up, and – and – 

“Fuck,” mutters Jon. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

He flings back the firs on his bed, blows out the candle on the tiny table that separates his bed from Theon’s. The room is plunged into complete darkness. He slides between the firs, pulling them over himself, and tries not to groan aloud at the sensation of them dragging across his achingly hard cock. 

**************** 

Jon sits up with a jolt. 

There’s an almighty crashing sound, then an exaggerated whisper. _”Shhh!”_

For a second, Jon can’t remember where he is. But then the thick, cloying smell of stale ale swells through the pitch darkness and even though he can’t see, Jon can feel the unmistakable sensation of a hot, sweaty body very close nearby. “Greyjoy. Did you just tell the bedpost to _’shh’_?” 

“I can tell who I like to _shh._ I’m the Prince of the Iron Islands—” Another crash. “Fucking – seven hells.”

It doesn’t take Jon long to fumble the candle alight. When he does, he’s greeted by the sight of Theon on his back on his bed, one foot absurdly in the air, struggling to get his boot off. 

“Well,” says Jon at length. “You’ve made good on your promise to get pissed.”

“Drank for the both of us ‘cos you were too dull.” Theon’s voice is thick with ale. After a moment, he flops his leg down. “Be a good boy and take my boots off.”

Jon wonders why he’d bothered lighting the candle in the first place. Typical Greyjoy. Rude, obnoxious, entitled, pissed, selfish, loud.

“Take your own boots off,” mutters Jon, turning away from him. As an afterthought, and he doesn’t even know why, he adds, “or get that girl with Robb’s red hair to do it for you.”

The pause hangs in the air for an age. Theon has completely stilled. His breathing is shallow, ragged. Jon hears Theon swallow hard, before returning to struggle with his boots. 

Jon huffs in irritation and turns around. He won’t get any sleep at this rate, and for the price of undoing a pair of boots, he weighs the situation up as worthwhile. “For fuck’s sake. Be still.” He starts to unlace him. “Was it worth it?”

“Was what worth it?”

Another pause. Jon slides a boot off. “The redhead girl.” 

“How the fuck should I know.” Jon, by now unlacing Theon’s second boot, glances at Theon’s face. He’s lying back, hair tousled and swept across his forehead, eyes closed. A sheen of sweat glows across his brow, illuminated in the candlelight. “Didn’t get anywhere with her. Frigid bitch. Besides, she wanted twice what I usually pay and I’m too good for that. Balls are still knotted to fuck.” Theon sighs, satisfied, as Jon slides his second boot off. “Better.”

“Good. Now we can go to sleep. We have to be up at dawn to—”

“ _Snow._ ”

Theon’s eyes are open and he’s looking at his groin.

“What?”

“If I can’t get my boots off, then I’m fucked when it comes to my breeches. You’ll have to unlace me.”

“Sleep in them.”

“Sleep in them? Snow, you might be prettier than most maidens an’ all, but you’re a man underneath those smallclothes and you know the state we wake up in. _Sleep in them_. It’d drop off.”

Jon stares at Theon’s lacings. How it is possible to feel such anger and frustration towards an item of fucking clothing? Theon’s writhing about, moaning and whimpering like a child, and his attempts at unlacing himself are so pathetic it’s like he’s been born with actual tentacles rather than hands. _It’s either unlace him or endure this performance all night, Snow._

“ _Jon._ I’m not going to fucking…jump you. Drowned God. Just – just get them off me so I can sleep.”

Jon takes a deep breath that he tries to pull off as a cross little huff (he suspects he has failed) and starts unlacing. Almost immediately, Theon’s face twists into a smirk.

“Oooh yes, Jon. You only had to ask—”

“Unlace your own fucking breeches, Greyjoy—”

“Fuck’s sake. I’m playing with you.”

Jon stares at him for a moment, then goes back to unlacing. “Ass,” he mutters.

“Cock,” smirks Theon. “Which way round?”

Jon stares daggers into Theon’s eyes. In one fluid motion, he grabs Theon’s breeches by the ankles and yanks them off so hard that Theon’s nearly taken off the bed with them. 

Theon laughs hoarsely. “Anybody would think you’ve done that before.”

“Your breeches are off. Now, go to sleep, Theon.”

Theon pauses. “But my balls hurt.”

“You sound like a petulant child.”

Another throaty laugh. “The fuck sort of children you been talking to, Snow?”

Not deigning to give Theon any sort of response to a comment like that, Jon blows the candle and the room is plunged into darkness once more. It takes Jon’s eyes a moment to adjust, but when they do, he finds his furs and slides between them. Jon can just make out the curve of Theon’s body in his bed, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. They lie in the dark, not speaking, not making a sound, yet Jon can almost feel Theon listening to his breathing as he does the same to him. What the fuck are they doing here? What in seven hells is this whole thing?

 _Theon will at least fall asleep quickly,_ reasons Jon. The room is thick with the smell of ale, with smoke from the fireplace, with chicken and rabbit stew, sucked into Theon’s leathers discarded in a heap on the floor. Then after a while – and Jon realises at once, it’s inevitable – Theon’s voice.

“Jon.”

No reply.

“ _Jon?_ ”

“ _What._ ”

“…my balls hurt.”

Jon exhales a long, exasperated sigh. “Then go and handle yourself. I presume you know how to do it—”

Immediately there’s shifting and movement in Theon’s bed, the unmistakeable sound of material against material, friction and loose wetness…

“Greyjoy! Not _here._ Seven hells. Go find a privvy or something.” 

“Too dark for that shit. Besides I’d have to put my breeches back on.”

“Then you’ll just have to live with it.”

Jon closes his eyes. There’s another long pause in which Jon wills himself to sleep, wills Theon to sleep, wills fucking…Balerion the Black Dread to rise again and burn the whole damn tavern to the ground. But, after five long minutes, there’s nothing but silence and Theon’s regular, quiet breathing. _Thank the fucking Gods,_ thinks Jon, but of course, the second things appear to be going well, they show themselves to be quite the opposite.

A soft, repetitive sound, barely discernible in the darkness, enters Jon’s sleepy consciousness like a drip into a bucket.

“Greyjoy. Please don’t tell me you’re doing what I think you’re doing.”

Silence. 

“…No.”

“Good. Now sleep.”

It lasts for about two minutes, the glorious silence.

“ _Twoo-twoo-twoooooooo. Twoo-twoo-twoooooooo. Twoo-twoo-tw --_ ” 

Jon’s rage is such that he can barely speak. “Theon.”

“Ye – ah, yes?”

“Are you doing that _fucking_ whistle to conceal the noise of you handling yourself?”

For a moment Theon doesn’t answer. Then he says, his voice laboured with effort, “What would be the – ah, the correct answer here, Snow?” 

All at once Jon is on him, straddling him in his bed, his hand on Theon’s jaw just where it meets his throat. He could choke him here. All it would take is some tightened fingers and a steady resolve. He can feel Theon’s erection resting between his arse cheeks. The room is pitch black. He can just about make out Theon’s eyes glittering in the darkness. Glittering with mirth. He’s doing it _deliberately._

“Greyjoy. _Stop_ winding me up, or—”

“But I like you wound up.”

“You don’t like anything about me.”

“Yes, I do.” A pause. Is Greyjoy making fun of him? There’s something in his voice that is genuine; a small, brittle quality Jon has never heard before. “I like it when you forget who you are. Just – just let yourself be.”

Jon releases his grip on Theon’s throat.

“No—” Theon whispers. “Put it back. I like that too.”

 _Gods._ All the time they’d glowered at one another, fought in the training yard, thrown barbed little comments around an oblivious Robb…it had all been about touch, all along. And how Jon hates Theon for what his touch does, how it makes him feel. Jon could rip him apart, he could, he _could_ , with the strength of all seven Gods he could plunge his fist into Theon’s heart and squeeze the life from him. Beneath him, Theon burns with the heat of a thunderbolt and Jon knows he shouldn’t, knows it will start something dreadful that neither can finish, but because he feels as though he will explode if he doesn’t, Jon puts his hands back on Theon’s throat. Theon sighs out a word - _yessss_ \- and then all at once Jon realises that he has reached around where Jon is straddling his lap and he’s started to handle himself again. 

“Theon – you can’t—”

His voice is raspy and whining. “I need to, Jon. _Need to._ I’m in agony here. Just – just keep your hands on my throat. It’ll be quicker, I promise.”

“This is – you can’t just toss yourself off around me.”

“I _need_ to spend.” Theon has sped up now. Jon can feel the back of his smallclothes dampen slightly at the cleft of his arse where the head of Theon’s cock is touching it. “ _Fuck._ Tighten your grip on my neck.”

 _Oh,_ how good it feels to be told that. Theon’s throat is so slender, so delicate. Like a woman’s. Jon closes his eyes and imagines what it looks like, pale and elegant, and how neat purple bruises bloom there under the push of Jon’s fingers. Theon groans gutturally as Jon squeezes a little tighter, then releases for a moment. _What could Greyjoy be thinking of?_ The wench with Robb’s hair? Some other girl he’s fucked? Ros, that whore he’s usually so obsessed with? 

“Greyjoy.”

“Wh – what?”

“Thought you said this would be quick.”

Theon laughs through breathy gasps, his mouth slightly open. Were it not for the way his lips glisten slightly, as though he’s just dragged his tongue along them, Jon would not be able to see them in the darkness.

“Too quick and it’s a – ah, it’s a waste. Need to _empty_ my balls, Snow, not just syphon off a layer…”

“That’s disgusting.”

Theon opens an eye. “So disgusting you’re rock hard.”

Jon blushes. “It happened suddenly – it’s because you’re, you’re jiggling about down there—”

“It was up the second you got into my lap.”

Enraged, Jon tightens his grip on Theon’s throat. Theon moans again and Jon’s cock twitches at the sound. 

“Toss me off, Jon.”

“ _What._ ”

“You heard.”

“I am _not_ going near—”

“One hand on my throat and the other on my cock. I’ll be done in seconds.” 

“Don’t – don’t _look_ at me like that.” Even as Jon says it, he knows it’s absurd. He can’t see anything in the darkness. But he still knows how Theon’s looking at him. He can feel it, crackling through the pitch. He can _smell_ the look on him.

“Or you could suck it. Or I could fuck you. I’d get you nice and ready, I swear it.”

“You’re a fucking deviant.”

“Just – just do _something._ ” Theon’s voice is a strange sort of whine, and if Jon didn’t know better, it would sound a little like the kraken prince is… _begging._

“If I handle you, will you shut up and go to sleep?”

“You have my word, on my honour.” Theon’s grinding his hips up into Jon’s crotch in such a way that is making Jon’s mouth exceptionally dry and his heart beat exceptionally fast. Jon reaches around behind his back with his free hand.

“If you tell anybody about this, I’ll cut it off,” mutters Jon, and as his hand closes around Theon’s cock, Theon moans into the darkness.

“ _Jonnnn…._ ”

It feels surprisingly good to hear his own name come out of Theon’s mouth in such a long, desperate groan. And having Theon’s prick in his hand feels, all at once, strangely familiar yet familiarly strange. It’s a cock – Jon knows what one of those feels like well enough – but Theon’s girth is different and the skin over his head moves in a different way. He’s not as thick as Jon, for a start, but he’s longer and his foreskin is slightly tighter. Jon can only imagine what it looks like. It feels neat, very straight and impossibly hard. That taut skin at the head would probably make the tip all reddish-purple, and _oh,_ it is so _wet._ Theon hisses and twists underneath Jon when he runs his thumb over the slit and through the moisture there.

“Tighter. Hold your grip tighter.”

Jon licks his lips. They’re so dry. “Throat, or – or—”

“Both.”

When Theon moans again, Jon hisses at him through the darkness. “ _Shut up._ This whole place will hear you.”

“I’ll say I was with a pretty whore.”

“And I’ll shake the teeth from your head.”

Theon bucks into Jon’s hand and almost sobs. “Yes. _Yes._ More.”

 _Ridiculous._ “Theon, if I choke you any tighter, I’ll end up murdering you—”

“N – no. More talking.”

“ _Seven hells_.” 

If it’s not enough for Theon himself to never fucking shut up, he’s now insisting on the same treatment from Jon. But what in the name of the Gods is Jon meant to say? He’s never been with a whore; he doesn’t know any of the pillow talk they murmur to hurry a man along to his spending. But then he thinks, _I’m not a whore_ and his prick twitches at the memory of Theon, muttering in the darkness, _just let yourself be._

“You’re being tossed off by Ned Stark’s bastard.” The high-pitched, strangled noise Theon makes then is like nothing else Jon has ever heard in his life. Encouraged by this, he presses on. “Not even Ned Stark’s true-born son. His _bastard._ ”

“Oh – oh gods—”

“Nobody would waste someone high-born on a hostage like you, Greyjoy. You’re barely fit for the fucking dregs of the Stark’s household guard. Robb wouldn’t even look twice at you.”

In the darkness, a slippery warmth has bloomed beneath Jon’s fingers and thumb, still pressed to Theon’s jaw. _It could be sweat_ , Jon reasons, but then Theon’s breath hitches and Jon knows it’s tears. Jon frowns.

“Theon—”

“ _Don’t fucking stop._ ”

Theon’s hand wraps around Jon’s knuckles where they encircle Theon’s prick. He gently changes the speed, the angle, and Jon allows him until Theon goes _”Unngghh”_ in the deepest, neediest moan Jon has ever heard. When Theon’s hand releases him, Jon is careful to maintain the machinations just as Theon had guided him, and realises then that he is losing his mind.

“You like that, Greyjoy? The knowledge that Robb wouldn’t want to be anywhere near you? This crying, mewling little mess?” 

“ _Yesssss_ \--”

“His men would, though. They’re a lot less discerning.” He pauses, gauging the reaction. When Theon coughs out a sob, bucks his hips so hard that Jon is nearly lifted clear off the bed and has to abandon Theon’s throat to grapple for the wall to steady himself, he’s told all he needs to know. “One after the other, they’d take you. Use you. That’s the point of a hostage, isn’t it? It’s about time the men got some rewards for putting up with your fucking manner all the time. Having to watch you lording it around as though you own the place, rather than being the little shitstain from a shithole island that you are. And you put it about enough…I mean, you’re practically asking for it. Tell me, _Prince Theon_ , can your mouth take cock as well as your arse can? You’d better start praying to the Drowned God, because your throat is going to get flooded—”

It’s absurdly loud, the tiny gushing noise it makes when Theon spends. Jon supposes it’s magnified in the darkness, but then it’s masked by Theon’s high-pitched whimpered gasp which he tries well to stifle through his nose, yet fails. And it’s so _warm_ over Jon’s knuckles – somehow it feels hotter than his own – and there’s so much of it, all up the back of Jon’s smallclothes, his back, at the bottom of his shoulder blades. 

Theon breathes, “ _Fuuuuuck._ ”

Jon murmurs, “Fuck.”

He doesn’t know what else to do with it, so Jon wipes his hand down the side of Theon’s furs. Tiny hairs come away from the pelt and stick to his tacky fingers, and the more he wipes, the furrier he becomes.

“Seven hells.”

Theon coughs out a laugh. “Yeah. Agreed.”

The bed creaks as Jon carefully swings his leg over Theon’s body, wobbling slightly as he steadies himself on the tiny bit of floorspace between the two beds. His head’s swimming a little, so he stands in the darkness allowing his balance to right itself before sliding back into his bed. It’s noticeably cold. 

And Theon has just spilled his seed across Jon’s hand. 

How on earth would they ever return from such a thing? Was Jon meant to behave as nothing had happened? Look Theon in the face at training, gripping his sword in his eyeline, just as he’d gripped fucking, ironborn cock? And, _gods,_ whatever would Robb say, should he hear of it? He’d string the both of them up! And he’d choked Theon, had him by the neck, probably left marks. How would they explain those? A bar brawl…some stupid game Greyjoy had got himself involved in he couldn’t see through. Easy enough. Jon will just forget how good it felt to do it. And _not_ just the part where he took Theon by the throat.

But…but surely Theon only needed him for the immediate release…he said plenty enough times his – his balls hurt. it’s not like it will happen again. Why _would_ it happen again? 

But _gods,_ Jon wants it to happen again. 

And then, the inevitable.

“ _Snow._ ”

Jon can only offer a “mmm?” as a reply as if he says a word, he is afraid his voice will crack.

Theon hesitates. “Would you really? You know – cut if off, if I tell anybody?”

 _This whole night has been a dream,_ Jon thinks. _It must be._ He remembers all those men downstairs in the tavern, the low and disgusting ways they behaved, and how despite this, they carry the names of great houses…houses sworn to Stark, as though they are inherently _good._ Glover, Cerwyn, Manderly, Bolton…and here, in the middle of it all, Theon Greyjoy is asking a bastard whether he’d _really_ cut his cock off.

Jon snorts a laugh into the darkness.

“Snow! Don’t – don’t laugh at me. You were quite convincing and besides, let’s face it – I’m a little terrified about what’s gone on in here tonight.” Theon attempts a laugh. It sounds like a nervous whisper.

“I’m not going to cut your cock off, Theon.”

He sighs in audible relief. “Oh. That’s good.”

“Provided you don’t tell anybody, of course. After all, I only helped you out to shut you up.” 

“Wh – what?” 

"And provided you have me do that again, not just because your first choice pull has rejected you." 

And then Jon smiles into the darkness, sure that Theon can hear it in his voice. 

 

************************

He pulls her into his lap in the corner of the bustling room, pushes a red ringlet back from her face. He throws out some things he usually says, things he knows he’s expected to say. _Tits, cunt, nice arse, bet you’re a good girl, so on, blah blah._ She laughs a bit; her smile’s toothy and unpleasant. Her jaw is rounded, slightly chubby, sunken back into her neck. A very womanly profile. So he fondles at her hair a little, hisses dirty things into her ear, so she giggles and turns away, the perfect picture of timidity. It’s easier if he doesn’t have to see her face. 

He grinds up into her backside and she bears back down on him. She’s well-trained and he can’t help but feel a little sorry for her, as it’s no reflection on her or what he’s sure are her perfectly acceptable abilities. She wriggles some, and a few times when it looks as though she’s about to turn towards him again, he tuts and laughs, whispers into her ear. Her hand falls towards the lacings of his breeches, palms at his groin, says loudly and breathily, “ _mmmmmmm._ ” 

Then she stops, confused. 

“Milord?”

He doesn’t reply. She laughs, more nervously this time. She’s obviously not used to such a problem, and neither is he…though, if he’s being honest with himself, there’s only been one occasion he’s found himself hard this evening and it was nothing to do with the redhead in his lap. 

“Let’s go upstairs. I’ve a room…it’s very comfortable and very private. Mayhaps milord would feel better if it’s just us.” 

She turns to face him then, and it’s dreadful because she really is quite pretty, in the way a tavern whore can be pretty and repugnant at all once, and there really is no excuse. She puts her lips on his neck, wet and full, whispers in his ear.

“I long to suck cock, milord. And I’m still tight down below. Tight in _both_ places. I’d love to show you.”

Theon pushes her off his lap.

He needs to get drunk. Very, very drunk.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a comment whore, lalalala.


End file.
